


coming home for christmas

by anoldlove



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bitter Exes, Christmas Angst, F/F, I still love Monty nothing has changed, an excess of christmas tropes, corny legal jargon as one of them is a lawyer, even the weather wingman-ed them, idk if there are still clexa readers out there but here ya go, my hallmark au, so much nature aesthetic, tense reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoldlove/pseuds/anoldlove
Summary: when tragedy strikes, Clarke can’t do anything but run from the pain she couldn’t deal with & builds a new life far away from everything & everyone she’s ever known. five years later, she’s coaxed back home for christmas weekend by Raven with news she can’t ignore & must fight her hardest case as a lawyer yet: Griffin vs. the life & love she left behind.orthe hallmark christmas au





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this thing has literally been sitting in my files for over a year. I started this for a dear friend long long ago & by some christmas miracle, managed to muster enough inspiration to finish it. sorry it took so long, but here you go—a terribly corny, stereotypical, excessively tropey, angsty christmas au.
> 
> to all you clexa shippers out there, I hope you’ve found peace. my friends & I haven’t, but the amazing television out there rn gives us hope. 
> 
> (special thank yous to shelbi, my xmas au partner-in-crime, & mila, whose brain & eyes are the reason my writing came out in a semi-coherent manner. u da bomb, bbs)

She tries to say no.

"Raven, I'm swamped right now. I can't—"

" _Clarke Griffin, you haven't been to the lodge in five years. That should be a crime, which you'd represent yourself for in court and win somehow but that's not the point_."

“I—"

" _Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. Spare us a couple days from your fancy D.C. life and come home. Come to your family's old house, spend time with the people who love and miss you_." There's a quiet sigh that she knows Raven is trying to hide. " _It'll be all of us like old times_."

Clarke can't help the small lurch in her chest at _all of us_. It revives something in her—a taste similar to panic, but too old and familiar to grip her like it used to.

"I have three cases to review by New Years and preliminary hearings before and after Christmas." It's her turn to sigh. Petty arguments and criminals never seemed to take a holiday.

" _Three days._ "

"But—“

" _72 hours away from the goddamn law and the world will still be intact when you return_."

She considers it for a moment. Considers the weariness in her neck, the memory of smooth wood floors and fresh snow, leaving her files and forms in a neat pile on her desk for a few days.

But then, she remembers.

Remembers who and why and what made it so hard to go back for the last five years and all of a sudden, her desk is a life preserver that she wants to cling to.

She silently berates herself. It's been ages, and yet—

 _"I didn't want to play this card, but you leave me no choice_."

"What?"

Another sigh buzzes through the speaker. The words garble, but somehow, Clarke manages to hear and comprehend and understand that yes, she needs to go home and it needs to be now.

She buys her ticket in just ten minutes. She's on a plane before sunrise.

//

The snow is different in Washington. It's cleaner, fresher, _purer_ than the powder she sees every year in her state's sister city on the other side of the country. D.C. manages to soil everything—people, politics, and something even as simple as snow.

Her boots touch the asphalt of the airport runway, grounding her amongst the 15 or so people that milled out of the small regional plane. She breathes deep once, letting the smell of pine trees and the winter breeze fill her lungs.

She makes a slow turn to take in the landscape and can't help the lump in her throat at the sight of the mountains in the distance. The backdrop she had grown up with, had missed and preferred over the man-made skyline she saw everyday back in the capitol.

It's almost like magic, how her mind clears and quiets. There has always been a constant stream of thoughts, of plans and speculations and objections that fills her head to the brim at all hours of the day. She's sure she dreams in legal jargon.

But all of that falls away—melts away, maybe—with every passing second she's back on home ground.

She's met with a gust of heat as she walks into the terminal, making her way through the airport past chairs upholstered with the same fabric from when she was just a kid, under yellow lights and the tinny stream of Christmas music filtering through small speakers.

She has just a small bag with her— _three days_ , she thinks to herself—and decides to head straight to the cab station. There's no line and the surprise takes her aback for a moment, but just a moment as she resets and reminds herself where she is.

Arkadia, Washington. Home of Washington State's 6th best ski center with a population of 700 strong.

She approaches the small podium under the glowing sign that read "Taxis - Cheap Fare", but is stopped short by a sharp yell.

"Clarke!"

She turns at her name and is almost bowled over by a wave of brown hair.

"You fucking _asshole_ , where have you _been_?"

Clarke doesn't answer and let's herself sink into the hug, the returning lump in her throat making it pretty hard to say anything.

The dull ache in her ribcage is back, but her best friend's glowing eyes are enough to dampen it.

"O, you look so good," Clarke says, the smile on her face wide and true. "I missed you so much."

"No, stop that." Octavia pokes a hard finger into her shoulder. "I get to be mad at you for at least five more minutes because of this."

But before Clarke can even open her mouth for a counterargument, she's pulled into another hug.

"I missed you more, babe. It's always harder for the people who watch you go," Octavia whispers.

Clarke swallows, the taste of guilt heavy on her tongue. She sniffles once into her friend’s parka and hears one against her own shoulder as well.

"Okay, come on," Octavia says, shaking her head once, "I'm under strict orders to bring you to the lodge as soon as you're here."

"Orders?" Clarke asks, an eyebrow raised.

"Raven's organized this whole weekend. Everyone has very specific things to get done or we face her wrath."

"Wow, well what can I do?"

Octavia digs into a pocket, pulling out and unfurling a small, crumpled piece of paper. Her eyes scan it carefully.

"The exact words are _'if she asks what she can do, she's already done too much'_."

Clarke rolls her eyes, but it goes unnoticed as Octavia tucks the paper away safely and starts to push her towards an idling car on the curb.

"Let's go," she says, "I need to get you to the lodge before Raven kicks my ass. I have other shit to get done."

They pull themselves into the jeep, their skin prickling at the encasing warmth of the car.

"So I'm just shit to get done."

"The biggest shit. The most important shit, babe."

"Forget it."

"The shittiest. Top of the shit list."

"Holy crap, just drive."

"Hey! That's a good one."

Clarke groans, but can't help a small snort.

"God, I missed you."

She almost hears the smile.

"Me too, Clarke. Me too."

//

The house is like something out of a dream—Clarke's dreams when she lets herself reach that far back. The stained wood, the wide porch, the candles in the windows. Even the way the snow piled perfectly at all angles of the roof is exactly how she remembers it.

Her eyes are glued to the old lodge as Octavia's car trudges through the snow, sending sprays of the fine powder in all directions like fanfare for the return of the prodigal daughter.

When she imagined coming back, it was something akin to visiting a grave. A cemetery, maybe. Not for people, but for the end of a part of her life that was too hard to think about sometimes.

Most of the time, really.

They're quiet as Octavia pulls to a stop in the long driveway and parks in front of the stairs.

"Are…you okay?" she asks softly. Clarke doesn't look away from the window, but nods.

She sees and feels and remembers everything at once, and although she thought it’d be too much, she—surprisingly—is okay.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she says. "I just, it’s been a while."

“It has.”

Clarke furrows her eyebrows, in confusion, in slight frustration.

“I think it’s…smaller than I remember.”

Octavia laughs once, quietly and under her breath, and shrugs.

“World’s a lot bigger now, I guess. It’s more than just Arkadia for you.”

The words send a dull ache through Clarke’s chest, but she swallows it down. The guilt isn’t eased by the truth by any means.

It simply hurts to think her mom has sold it away. The home built by memories, both painful and precious, and a ghost Clarke has been running from since the funeral five winters ago.

And now that she sees the old, wooden house, it makes sense that she’s here. That terrible feeling in her stomach when Raven told her it was sold a few weeks ago was enough to bring her back.

She breathes out once and turns to her friend.

“Do you know when my mom hands the keys over to the buyer?”

Octavia just looks at her for a moment, eyes apologetic. A small sigh.

“Soon as the contract’s signed. I’m guessing the day after Christmas.”

Clarke just nods. But more than anything, she wants to _rage_ at the idea of her mother selling the home she grew up in, the house her dad spent countless hours repairing with his bare hands, the place where every one of her best days and favorite times happened.

But she knows she lost the right to a long time ago, so she swallows it down with a practice ease that took years to perfect.

“When’s everyone getting here?” Clarke asks. Octavia rubs her hands together and turns up the heat a bit more.

“Raven has to close up shop after a few last minute winter tire changes, Monty's got a late afternoon broadcast for the final weather report before the FM station closes, Jasper has to pick up Maya from the train station, Bell's at school finishing up some grading, and Lincoln's at our place baking." She ticks off their friends on each finger of a hand. "Everyone has a job or two to finish for prep, then we'll all be back."

Clarke tries to process everything, but her mind pauses and sputters like a broken record as she catches bits of news she wasn't aware of.

"Raven's working at the shop? The FM station's open again?" She trips over her own words as she struggles to get it all straightened out. "And Bell—"  
  
Octavia just laughs.

"You'll hear all about it tonight.”  
  
Clarke notices whose name Octavia left out and wonders whether it's easier to ask or pretend she didn't notice. She chooses the second.

"Who's Maya?"

Octavia grins.

"Jasper's fiancée."

"Holy _shit_."

"Yeah. Lots has changed, Clarke."

Something lodges in her ribs at the thought, but again, she chooses to ignore it. She’ll most likely have to get used to the feeling.

“By the way, your mom is at the hospital checking on some patients. She wanted you to call once you got here.”

Clarke makes an evasive noise.

“ _Call_ her, Clarke. You're here for god’s sake. A phone call is nothing compared to that.”

“I just–” she says, frustration threatening to spill over, to burst at the seams that are barely holding together as it is. “I can't believe she’s selling it.”

Octavia sits quietly, as if searching for the right words. Instead, she reaches over for Clarke’s hand.

“It’s gonna be okay, babe.” She smiles, sad and small. “You're here, so whatever happens, it'll be okay.”

Octavia lets go of her hand. She leans to look at the sky out her window.

Thick, looming clouds are rolling in, layering the sky like the snow that could fall very soon. The winds and trees bristle with anticipation, the temperature creeping south like a slow warning.

Octavia gives her a reassuring look, but Clarke can’t seem to smile in return. They sigh, at the same time but for different reasons.

“You should head inside. I’ll be back in a couple hours, so you can reacquaint yourself with the place.” The word _reacquaint_ feels like a slap in the face, but Clarke squares her shoulders against the hit. Soldiers on.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“Positive. Go inside, get warm, unpack and settle in. Christmas Eve dinner is bound to be a fiasco so you’ll need the mental prep.”

In the end, Octavia all but pushes her out of the car and drives away, tires crunching into the street and before she knows it, Clarke is standing alone in front of her childhood home.

_Small steps._

That’s all she needs. Small steps up the porch, through the door, into the lodge, and then she can see how she feels.

The thing is, Clarke has always been an overachiever, so she makes it all the way to the living room before it hits her.

She sees it all, _feels_ it all at once, and my god, staying away for years seems so stupid because in just a moment, everything comes rushing back.

Her dad moving around the kitchen, cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Clarke sitting on the counter, just watching. Lexa laying in front of the fireplace. Christmas eves spent sitting with her dad settled in front of the tree, eating warm cookies and talking about the presents. Lexa running in through the back door with the sun in her smile and snowflakes on her eyelashes. Lexa sprawled on the couch with a book, glasses slowly moving down her nose. Lexa standing at the front door, arms folded and smaller than she’d ever seen her, watching Clarke drive away. Lexa, Lexa, Lexa.

_Deep breaths._

She came back for a reason, and if she's going to survive three days in Christmas past, she needs to deal with—

"Clarke?"

She freezes at the sound, recognition washing over her but hoping, wishing, praying that it was just her imagination.

(God knows she's dreamt about it enough.)

Her answering quiet is deafening, but maybe if she waited—

"Clarke."

No chance.

She turns around slowly and carefully as if she is going to break, but it happens anyway. The sight of Lexa is blinding, who stands tall and regal in the hallway, eyes wide but unreadable.

"What're you doing here?" Clarke chokes out.

Lexa's eyebrows raise once in surprise, but her face gives nothing else away.

"Hello to you, too," she says, taking a couple steps into the living room. "Five years and that's all I get?"

"I—I mean, hi." Clarke tries to let out a shaky breath as smooth as she can. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting to see you."

It slips out and even _she_ cringes at how off-putting it sounds. The honest truth was that she had hoped she could avoid seeing her because seeing her was dangerous.

Clarke had stayed far and away from Arkadia because of this frustratingly unmoveable, beautiful girl. Had done everything in her power not to lay eyes because she knew it would all come rushing back. And it turns out Clarke was right, as she always is.

It’s been years, and yet the wound still feels fresh with Lexa right in front of her.

Lexa's gaze cuts right through Clarke, who does her best to stand still despite every alarm inside blaring _run away get away this is too much_.

At last, Lexa answers.

"It's Christmas time.”

"What?"

She looks at Clarke like she has three heads.

"It's Christmas. I'm always here during the holidays."

Clarke's mind whirs at the statement, trying to wrap itself around the fact that her ex-girlfriend has spent more time with her mom than she has in the past five years. Something nasty and jealous and bitter flares up, but it's slowly dampened by the understanding that Lexa had made sure her mother wasn't alone during the time she needed someone most. She sighs, eyes closing for a moment.

"Thank you,” Clarke says.

Lexa is a statue, still showing no emotion or sign or _anything_ that Clarke can read.

"I just," she continues, "thank you. I haven't—I wasn't—" A breath. "You being here with her every year is more than I deserve."

Lexa stares at her for several beats, eyes deep green and almost cold. She moves finally—pulls the sides of her shirt closer and folds her arms and Clarke knows in a far, forgotten corner of her mind that she’s said the wrong thing.

"I didn't do it for you."

The sentence replaces all the air in the room, opening a wide, gaping canyon in the space between them. Something aches deep inside Clarke as she watches Lexa look down and away, taking a step backward as she continues.  
  
"I'm in the second bedroom upstairs. We'll barely see each other, don't worry.”

Before Clarke can even open her mouth, Lexa is gone, her feet padding quietly down the hallway.

The house is silent as Clarke stands there, rooted to the spot as she replays the last two minutes in her head over and over and over again. She assesses the situation and tries to find a solution. A loophole. Anything to get her out and away from the painful realization that shockingly, life had continued in Arkadia without her. Everyone had molded around the space she left as if she was never there, as if they didn't need her, and it hurt.

 _Serves you right_ , a nasty voice inside her says. _You're the one who ran away._

She shakes her head once, stopping the thoughts before they multiply. A deep breath to collect them. Three days is entirely manageable. It's feasible and possible if she navigates the minefield that is her old home with poise and care. All she’ll have to do is avoid more surprises.

She spots something out of the corner of her eye and turns to look out the window.

It’s snowing.

//

The door to her old room squeals as she swings it open. She doesn’t know what she expected, but seeing it stripped bare and redone as a guest bedroom hurt more than Clarke cares to admit.

Her little black suitcase doesn’t match with the wood floors and soft red blankets, but she elects to ignore it and changes into jeans and a sweater to at least try to be more comfortable.

Her phone buzzes facedown on her bed.

Grateful from a reprieve from everything that had hit her in the last two hours, she grabs it and wishes hard for some sort of DC emergency that would absolutely require her to fly back, so sorry, maybe next time.

But she swipes the screen open to see a text from Raven.

 **very possible you already ran**  
**into someone that I know you’ve**  
**been avoiding. I won’t apologize**  
**but I will say I hope you two**  
**reconcile for the sake of**  
**Christmas & your poor mom**

Clarke’s fingers stall on the keyboard. She feels wisps of so many feelings reeling through her—frustration, anger, sadness, guilt, maybe even a tinge of longing—but pushes it all away with a sigh and a quick shake of her head.

 **Saw her. You’ve got some**  
**explaining to do later.**

The dots appear almost instantly.

 **not my fault that she spends more**  
**time at your home than you.**

The words sting, but her phone buzzes again.

**i’m sorry, that was a cheap shot.**

**just, don’t burn down the house**  
**before we all get there okay? we’ll**  
**be there soon to buffer. this storm’s**  
**starting to look really bad**

**Hurry. Be safe.**

She sits down on the bed, pulling her feet under her, and sighs. Before she can overthink it, she calls her mom. Things can’t get any worse so obviously, it’s the best time to do it.

It rings just twice before Abby picks up.

“ _Clarke?”_

“Hi, mom.”

“ _You made it. I'm so glad_.”

“Kinda had to, considering you're selling my childhood away.”

“ _I see we're not wasting any time with this_.”

“Well, neither did you when you decided to slap a for sale sign on the house.” She grits her teeth. “Without telling me.”

“ _Honey, I don't mean to be petty, but I can count on one hand how many times we talked on the phone in the past year. I had to rely on Raven for periodic updates that you were still alive, let alone doing well on your own out there_.” Her mom’s voice betrays some emotion, wavering slightly in what Clarke can guess is anger and hurt and frustration. It stabs deep and hot, knowing that she had done this to her. Made her feel this way.

A sigh warbles through the phone.

“ _Like I said, I don't want to be petty. I'm just happy that you're here. Nothing else matters_.”

“I know. Me too.”

It’s only slightly true, but true enough for Clarke to mean it.

“ _It’s gonna be okay. The house will always be your home, no matter what_.”

“But who’s the buyer? Are they nice? Did you at least get a good price on it? I was hoping to take a look at the contract and—”

“ _Honey, we’ll talk about this later. I've got to get a few things done, then I’ll be home_.”

Clarke breathes out of her nose. She could wait a few more hours.

“Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“ _Can't wait. Settle in, rest a bit, and Clarke?_ ” she asks.

“Yeah?”

“ _Be nice to Lexa. God knows she’s been good to me for the last five years_.”

Her heart clenches and it's hard to breathe for a moment. Guilt sits heavy in her stomach, only slightly remedied by gratitude and an affection ingrained so deeply in her. She didn't deserve Lexa’s goodness, but her mother did.

“I will, mom. Love you.”

“ _Love you too, sweetie. Bye_.”

Clarke tosses her phone down next to her and falls backwards onto the bed with a groan. Everything is so complicated and yet so simple, it makes her head hurt.

She left. She never came back. She hurt the people she loved. Life went on without her and their wounds healed over the empty space she left behind, and now she feels like a complete outsider. Like she doesn't belong in the one place she thought would always feel like home.

The feelings get to be too much. Clarke decides she can’t hide out in her old room without being haunted by the memories, so she braves the rest of her home in search of different ones.

She pads around the house carefully, almost tiptoeing as if too heavy of a step would jar everything loose from the high shelf she had stored all her feelings away.

Her dad dying suddenly. Leaving. Leaving Lexa. Trying to build a new life in a new city atop the rubbles of her old one.

It had been almost too easy.

//

_“I won’t stop you,” Lexa says, her voice both wavering and steady, “but please, Clarke, come back. Your family is here.”_

_Clarke tries not to recoil at the word, but all she feels is what used to be whole split into pieces. Her mother cut into clean hospital corners that she’s hid behind for weeks and Clarke into sharp, jagged edges to keep everyone away._

_A childhood together had made them just like Clarke’s parents—Lexa a mirror image of Jake and Clarke of her mother, meaning she had to run from what hurt too much to be around._

_“I will.”_

_A childhood together meant there was no such thing as lying and getting away with it._

_But Clarke did._

//

“Are you hungry?”

The question startles Clarke out of her thoughts. She turns around from the window and blinks at Lexa, blown away once again that she was really here. With her.

“I’m gonna make something to eat and it could be perceived as rude if I don’t ask the guest if she’s hungry too.”

Guest.

The shot hits true and Clarke feels it bury deep and sharp in her ribs.

This is the closest Clarke’s been to her in years, and yet the expanse of the living room between them feels like a million miles. She tries to focus on her breathing.

Truth be told, she is hungry, but for some reason, saying no feels like winning.

“Um, not really.”

“So, yes. Okay, I’ll make pasta.”

A frown tugs at Clarke’s mouth.

“I said not really.”

Lexa rolls her eyes and walks towards the kitchen, which only serves to dig into Clarke’s ribs deeper.

“Yeah, but that first ‘um’ betrayed you. That’s always been your tell.”

“Oh, so you know me so well?” Clarke follows her, steps just a little indignant.

“Never said that.” Her tone is infuriating. “But old habits die hard and that one’s been around since we were tiny.”

“D’you get off on just acting like—“

“Marinara or olive oil?”

It catches Clarke off guard. Lexa continues.

“Bellamy is bringing the groceries for the weekend, so we’re stuck with what’s left in the pantry, which is pasta or hard liquor. And considering it’s just past 3:30 and I’m kinda sure you’re not an alcoholic, I think pasta is the better option,” she states plainly, moving around the kitchen methodically to prep. “Ergo my question—marinara or olive oil?”

Clarke weighs the merits of stoking this argument further to placate the uncomfortable weight that had sat in her chest as soon as she walked through the front door, but she is betrayed by her stomach giving a low rumble.

She sighs, hopping onto one of the high stools by the counter.

“Marinara.”

“Excellent choice.”

Lexa boils the pasta and stirs the sauce at the stove in silence, while Clarke tries her hardest not to...observe her for more than three seconds at a time.

The years have been good to Lexa. She looks lean and strong, healthy and _right_ —like she’s where she is meant to be. Clarke doesn’t know if she’s justified in feeling a strange sort of jealousy, as if it’s Lexa’s fault that she looks great.

Her hair’s longer. She’s wearing a warm flannel folded—

“You’re staring,” Lexa says without looking up.

“I am not—“

“At ease, counsel, I was kidding.” She seamlessly serves up two bowls and places a fork in front of Clarke. “Bon appetit.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, trying not to moan at the smell because _god_ she is absolutely starving all of a sudden?

They tuck into the food, Clarke at her seat and Lexa standing at the counter with her bowl in one hand and a fork in the other.

“So,” Lexa starts, because she’s never been one to avoid a challenge, “how’s D.C.?”

Clarke swallows and opens her mouth, fully intent on upselling the crap out of the messiest and most deplorable city in the universe, but one look at Lexa’s eyes makes her sigh.

“It sucks.”

Lexa laughs and Clarke just keeps going.

“It’s great but it _sucks_. It’s so terrible that I wonder how it could possibly be the capital and the seat of our governing body, but then sometimes, I see something amazing. Like high school students organizing a demonstration or actual justice served on a case or the cherry blossoms in the spring—and it’s beautiful again.”

Lexa looks at her for a long while, fork twirling slowly in her bowl. She finally nods, small and almost imperceptible.

“Do you miss it here?”

Clarke almost chokes on her bite of spaghetti.

“I thought the heavy-hitting questions wouldn’t come up till the end of the meal.”

Lexa just shrugs.

“I didn’t think it’s that big of a question. Yes or no?”

“It’s more complicated than that, Lexa.”

“Is it?”

“It’s not just whether I miss it, of course I do, but—“ Clarke can’t find the words to say. “It’s hard. I don't know how to feel.”

The ensuing silence is almost palpable, prickling at Clarke’s skin like frostbite. She wishes she could explain how unbearable it had been to stay away for five years, but how impossible it seemed to come back.

She wishes she could admit that she missed her home, her friends, her mom. That she thought about Lexa everyday.

But the words knot in her chest and the disappointed tuck of Lexa’s lips are too much.

She can't. And she doesn't.

Lexa walks over and places her almost untouched bowl in the sink.

“If I’m being honest, I didn’t know what would be worse—you saying yes or you saying no. But not knowing after all this time?” she sighs and wipes her hands on a small towel, “I think that hurts most.”

She walks out of the kitchen, leaving Clarke with her tangling thoughts and a different hollow feeling in her stomach.

This. This is why she stayed away.

//

Clarke’s trying to read some book she found on a shelf and remember what it feels like to unwind a bit when the electricity suddenly goes out.

With the low hum of the heater gone, Clarke hears the wind howling outside. She stands to look out the window and gasps.

The storm had finally hit and it’s a certifiable blizzard. It’s almost impossible to see through the sheets of white falling from the sky, already coating trees and blanketing the ground in a layer thick enough to cause concern.

She pulls out her phone from her back pocket, immediately dialing Octavia up, but the call drops out.

No service.

“The cell tower’s down,” Lexa says from behind her. Clarke turns around to see her stride in with a big radio in her hands.

“I didn't realize that still happened.”

“It does when the one in town is just as old as we are.” She pulls the thin, silver antenna out of the radio and sets it on the living room table. Switches flick, it comes on, and a high-pitched siren filters through the speakers.

Clarke recognizes it instantly.

_High alert. Extreme snow conditions. Roads off-limits._

This exact warning had only been sounded three times when Clarke was growing up. Each had yielded at least three feet of snow and locked the town indoors for at least a day.

The thought spikes panic through her.

“Shit,” Lexa mutters. Seems like Clarke isn't the only one feeling it.

Lexa stands and walks over to the window,

“The snow’s already at least two feet high,” she sighs. “No one’s gonna be able to drive here.”

Something crackles in her back pocket. The sound of it warbles for a moment before Lexa reaches and pulls out a small walkie-talkie.

_“Come in, lodge prisoners, do you copy?”_

Clarke smiles at the sound. It’s Monty.

Lexa brings it up to her mouth.

“We’re here, Monty. Is everyone okay?”

The static is heavy in the space between their messages.

Finally, it beeps again.

_“Everyone’s separated because of our last minute chores, but we’re all hunkered down. You guys alright?”_

Lexa looks to her for a quick moment, then back away again.

“We’re fine. How does the storm look?”

_“Not fine. Not fine at all. We can’t get the trucks out to clear the roads till this thing passes, so it looks like you guys’ll be stranded till then.”_

A pause before a quiet word.

_“Sorry.”_

The apology seems to be directed to Lexa and it hurts more than Clarke’s willing to admit.

“It’ll be alright. Make sure everyone’s safe.”

_“Yes ma’am. Say hi to Clarke for me. Tell her I missed her and that I can't wait to see her.”_

She looks over to Clarke, who smiles soft. She missed Monty too.

“She missed you, too,” Lexa says, reading her mind. “Be careful.”

_“Cool beans. Monty out.”_

Lexa sighs as she puts the radio back down on the table and rests her hands on her hips.

“Well, you heard him. We’ll have to lay low till this blows over.”

Clarke bites at the inside of her lip. Nods.

“How long do you think it’ll last?” she asks. Something suddenly darkens in Lexa’s face.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here soon enough.”

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Your worst nightmare, isn’t it? Being stuck in this house with me, surrounded by old ghosts?”

Clarke is speechless, and yet she forms words.

“How _dare_ you—“

“Oh yeah, I dare, Clarke.” Her chest rises and falls. “Five years of silence merits me at least five seconds of bitterness.”

She storms past Clarke and grabs her coat from the hook. She starts pulling on her boots.

“Where the hell are y—“

“The gas heating went to shit last winter. We need firewood if we’re not gonna freeze to death tonight.”

Clarke is standing there, dazed at how she couldn’t even finish a sentence without Lexa knowing exactly what she was thinking, at how the anger had suddenly spilled out of her.

She wonders why it had burned so much.

//

Clarke is balled up on the couch, wallowing in hurt and confusion, when the walkie-talkie on the living room table beeps to life again.

“ _Come in, Lexa, do you copy_?”

She hesitates for a moment, but picks it up.

“Monty? It’s Clarke.”

The response is almost immediate.

 _“Clarke! My god, of course it’s you. Oh jeez, it’s so good to hear your voice_. _”_

“We talked on the phone two weeks ago.”

 _“Well yeah, but knowing you’re talking to me from like two miles away? Game changer.”_ She laughs.

“Fair point.”

“ _Okay, so I buzzed because I have news on the storm. Radar said that it should wear itself out by sometime tomorrow morning, so we’re hoping to get to you guys by the afternoon_.”

She turns to look through the windows and grimaces at the complete white-out.

Lexa is still outside. She knows Lexa can handle any kind of extreme weather, but she can’t help the low thrum of concern she feels. It has to be freezing and what if she needs—

_“Clarke? You still there?”_

She jumps a little in surprise.

“Yeah, sorry.”

_“Where’s Lexa? Is she okay? Did something happen?”_

“Um, yes? No. Well, kinda. I think she’s okay. We had some tense conversation, then she went out for firewood a little while ago.”

_“Yikes. Tense, huh?”_

A sigh.

“Yeah. The whole day, and it’s probably an understatement.”

_“Well no offense, Clarke, but you can’t really blame her.”_

She doesn’t think it’ll ever stop stinging.

“ _You know we love you. But Lexa, she_ —“ he hesitates, “ _you leaving was unbearable for her. I don’t think she ever got over it_.”

Her throat constricts with the threat of tears, with the burn of guilt and sadness. She never got over it either, but it feels so much worse to know that she made Lexa go through the same thing for years.

Clarke deserved it. Lexa didn’t.

“ _I know it’s hard for you to be back here, I do,_ ” Monty continues, “ _but cut her some slack. Maybe give her some answers because this has been killing her since the day you left_.”

“I don’t know if I can say or do anything to make up for it.” Her voice cracks. She pretends it doesn’t.

“ _You have to try. She deserves at least that_.”

“Lexa deserves better than me, Monty, especially after everything I did.”

“ _Try_.”

//

When Clarke walks back into the living room later that evening, Lexa is stoking bright flames in the fireplace. She’s drawn to the warmth and the calm curve of Lexa’s shoulders. She takes a deep breath, summoning some last minute courage.

“It’s not you, y’know.”

Lexa looks over at her. Clarke clears her throat.

“I, uh—I don’t hate being here with you.”

“Wow, thank you for that.”

“No no, I mean, like, this isn’t terrible, being stuck with you.”

“What’s really terrible is you trying to form these thoughts into words,” Lexa says, standing and wiping her hands on the back of her shirt.

“God, I know right.”

“Good thing you’re not like, a lawyer or anything.”

“Shut up. I—“

“I’m just kidding. I know what you’re saying, It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I’ve been avoiding this place all this time because I couldn’t deal with what happened after my dad died, and the thought of my mom selling this place without me getting to see it one last time was too much.” She shifted uneasily at the sudden onslaught of honesty. “And it was just enough to get me here. It’s hard and it’s not okay and I’m sorry.”

They stand in silence for a moment, shadows dancing around the room as darkness rolls in with the night.

“I understand, Clarke. At least, I think I do.” Lexa takes a few steps closer to her. Almost reaching out as if to touch her arm, but she falters and stays put.

“I have a peace offering,” Clarke says. She reveals the hand that she was hiding behind her.

The bottle of her dad’s secret whiskey.

She didn’t know what made her check the trick floorboard in her dad’s study, but she found herself in the room, hoping and praying for a small gift left behind.

“Is that what I think it is?” Lexa asks, a smile betraying her.

“Merry Christmas.”

“How?”

“It was still there, after all these years. I guess mom never knew where he hid it.”

It had been a running joke—that the whiskey was magic and should thus be hidden and protected as such. It would make appearances on special days with loud family or warm, soft nights in front of the fire.

Clarke had found her dad’s hiding spot when she was 14, but never touched it till this day.

She could use a little bit of magic.

Clarke sets down two glasses with ice on the coffee table and pulls the lid off, pouring two hearty servings.

Lexa plops down on the floor, unable to get rid of that smile.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, swirling her glass around.

“We’re toasting to old ghosts and forgiveness,” Clarke said, lifting hers. “Cheers.”

Lexa looks at her for a moment, eyes searching. They never leave Clarke’s as she tips her glass forward and downs it in one go.

Both of them wince at the burn, but the warmth settles like another fire deep in their bellies and it’s enough for a cold night.

“You know, responsible adults would eat dinner before tucking into this bottle,” Lexa states.

She pushes her glass towards Clarke for more. She smiles.

“But most responsible adults have never tasted magic whiskey before.”

Clarke laughs and pours them both another round.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.......don't even have an excuse for this. it's march 6th & i'm posting the second half of this christmas hallmark au & i'm just..........i'll leave this here for you guys to enjoy way too late. big thank you to mila for helping me out, always. any & all happiness in regards to this writing should be directed to my babe shelbi who made sure I'd post this eventually. 
> 
> merry christmas, everyone.

The thing about old liquor is that it hits like snow in a winter storm.

Slowly, then all at once.

The two of them are giggling, sitting side by side, leaning back against the couch in front of the fire.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Clarke.”

“I distinctly remember you breaking Bellamy’s arm. We were 13.”

“I object.”

“We’re using legal terms now?

“That _barely_ counts as a legal term.”

“I could represent little Bellamy and take you to court.”

“Well then I’ll counter-sue him for having glass bones and paper skin.”

“Unbelievable.”

“It was an accident! A harmless body check in a friendly game of ice hockey.”

“There is no such thing as a friendly game of anything with you.”

“Not guilty!” Lexa pounds the floor with the empty bottle like a gavel.

The two of them are cracking up and blinking through tears. Their veins run more whiskey than blood after hours of steady liquor and the crackling warmth of it rivals the fire.

“He was in so much pain, but he was _so embarrassed.”_

“You broke the chauvinism right out of him. He’s never been the same.”

“Y'know what I think is more embarrassing though?” Lexa says, taking another gulp. She makes a face as the whiskey settles. “When Lincoln bet that he could get a girl to dance with him before I could at homecoming sophomore year.”

Clarke laughs again.

“Oh my god,” she says, wiping tears, “his face when you walked right up and swept me onto the dance floor. Priceless.”

“Serves him right for being the new kid and trying to make friends _that_ way.”

“Well hey, it worked.”

“Ooh, I got another one. You,” she points a finger at Clarke with a smirk, “throwing up into your backpack on our 3rd grade field trip.”

“Oh _god_ no. It’s been decades, please forget about it already.”

“I was the only one who would sit next to you on the bus ride back.”

“You hurt Bellamy again that day.” Clarke grins, taking a sip.

“What?”

“Yeah. He told me I smelled and you punched him. Bloody nose.”

“Like I said, paper skin.”

It prompts another wave of laughs—the kind that has Clarke and Lexa leaning into each other, as if gravity had shifted to pull and tether them together instead of to the ground.

Clarke feels so light. Lighter than she’s felt in ages and in every definition. She knows why but no chance, no way, she won’t say and admit exactly who it's because.

Laughter wears down to slow giggles which shift to soft sighs. Lexa swirls the ice in her empty glass, the _clinks_ of the worn down cubes chiming soft notes.

“You forgot me earlier.”

“What?” Clarke mumbles, her mouth thick with magic.

“In that fancy monologue about being sorry and explaining why you came back. You forgot me.” She sets the glass down. “Or was I not a factor in the decision for your triumphant return?”

Clarke is caught off-guard to say the least. She can feel the looming habit of backing away, running the opposite direction, hiding. The question and her answer are dangerous waters, but she’s drunk and isn’t ready for this night with this whiskey-soft version of Lexa to end yet.

“How could you not be?”

“You tell me, Clarke.”

“I—” she swallows, trying to keep the words from sticking to her tongue. Lexa is really going to make her say it out loud.

She searches for what to say. For excuses or changes in topic or something light-hearted to soften the tension that has taken over the room.

All she finds is the truth.

“I was afraid you'd hate me. Despise me and exude a hate that would burn me inside out.”

“What?” Lexa breathes, almost incredulously. “Why—”

“Because I left, Lexa. I left you and you had every right to be terrible to me.” She sighs. “But I was wrong. That wasn't the worst thing that could happen.”

Clarke doesn’t look up, but she can picture the exact look on Lexa’s face. Mouth turned downwards, eyebrows furrowed, eyes a dark green that isn't found anywhere outside the city limits of Arkadia.

“The worst thing was you keeping your distance. It was you treating me like a guest in my home. It was you telling me where your room is as if I didn't know you like the second bedroom upstairs because it looks into the mountains in the backyard and the window faces sunrise.”

“Clarke—”

“The worst thing was feeling like a stranger to someone who was home to me.” She tips the glass over her lips again, hoping for just a few more drops because her honesty is making the room spin more than the whiskey.

The pops of the fire and the wind outside fill the silence between them, and Clarke wonders for a moment if her heartbeat is as loud as it feels, thumping like a bass drum in her chest.

“It was just such a long time,” Lexa finally says. “I didn't know how I was supposed to act or what I was supposed to do when I saw you again. I didn't know who you’d be.”

Clarke laughs once. It’s fair, the assumption that she’d be someone else. Five years is a long time to be away from the people you love.

“I guess I shouldn't be surprised. All this time makes it easy to forget about me.”

Lexa shakes her head, scoffing once.

“God, Clarke.”

“What?”

“Your flair for the dramatic.”

“ _Excuse_ you, I am not dramatic,” Clarke huffs, appalled at the accusation.

“Oh yeah?” Lexa shifts, moving closer and turning to face her. “You think we all just forgot about you? Like it was so quick and easy to say goodbye? Say that you forgot about everyone here. Make me believe it, and I’ll take it back.”

It’s like her heart stops, how it quiets in an instant at the sudden seriousness in Lexa’s voice, at how she is just a breath away. Clarke swallows once.

“I can’t do that.”

Lexa’s eyes bore into her’s. She soldiers on.

“I can’t do that because I remembered every bit of it, Lexa. I didn’t come back because I _couldn’t_ forget.”

Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, drowning out everything else. It’s the quiet after the confession that's always the hardest part—the purgatory of waiting for a response, a reaction, _anything_ is what pulses with anxiety and fear in Clarke’s chest.

She’s finally answered by a sigh, by eyes almost black but shimmering in the shifting light of the fire.

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

It's so soft and so sincere. Clarke swallows the lump in her throat and tilts her chin up, very truly trying her best not to let the tears fall.

“Can’t get rid of me,” she jokes, nudging Lexa once. She expects a laugh back, but doesn’t get one.

“You’re right. I can’t.”

She doesn’t know how they got there, but Lexa’s eyes are so close and her lips even closer.

It'd be so easy to lean in and give into this feeling that would taste like coming home.

The gravity between them gets stronger and stronger, the pull unavoidable and irresistible.

A loud pop by the crackling wood startles them, cutting through the moment like a knife.

Clarke is up across the room before she knows it, trying not to sway at the rush of alcohol in her head. She had been so close, _Lexa_ had been so close and all she felt was something dangerous all across her skin.

It was too much.

“I’m uh, tired. I’m gonna head to bed.”

Lexa blinks in confusion. The answering quiet is heavy and the question of their almost-kiss hangs in the air. She nods slowly then, as if giving in. A quiet sigh falls from her lips.

“Good night, Clarke,” her voice sober. “Merry Christmas.”

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night.

//

Clarke awakes to the sound of padding feet, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, and to light filtering through the curtains.

Light?

She braves a peek out of one eye and is met by blinding brightness.

The sun. The storm is over.

She groans, feeling the weight of the alcohol from last night like thick cotton balls in her head and stuck to her tongue. Cold licks at the corners of her duvet while the room threatens to spin like a carousel about to start. The bed is too comfy to leave, but it smells like Lexa is making breakfast.

_Lexa._

It comes in like the tide—the easy conversation, the laughter that felt like an old habit, the warmth of the fire, the whiskey and how alarmingly easy it had been to relax with Lexa next to her and almost—

 _There are worse things to drown in_ , a voice says from deep inside.

No.

Clarke shakes her head, trying to jar the words loose, and immediately regrets it as the room threatens to tilt over. She practically vomits getting up and barely gets past the door.

“Coffee. I need coffee,” she mutters.

When she makes it to the counter by some miracle, there's a steaming cup of black magic and two small pills waiting for her. She downs them both and takes a huge gulp of the coffee, the burn almost nothing compared to the sheer relief of caffeine.

“Morning.”

She looks up, squinting against the light. Lexa’s sitting next to the sink, mug in hand and a smile on her face. She looks completely unaffected by their binge the night before. It’s something she had always teased Clarke about—hangovers never seem to grace her, whereas Clarke feels every drop of alcohol in her system the next morning. She lifts a hand and flicks off the frustratingly perfect, sober girl who could convey everything without uttering a single word.

Lexa just laughs.

“Something bothering you?” she says, lifting her cup to take a sip.

“Damn you.”

“What? I didn't do anything.”

“Just shush. You're yelling.” Lexa laughs in response and hops off the counter, striding over.

“Am not. But you look like you need something to ease the pain.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Lexa slides a plate piled high with eggs and bacon towards her. Clarke moans at the smell and makes grabby hands for a fork as she takes a seat. Lexa passes her one.

“You,” Clarke says, between massive bites, “are an angel sent from above.”

“You're welcome.”

She should probably feel a little embarrassed about how fast she cleans off her plate, but the weight of the food and warmth of the coffee are too satisfying for her to care. She sighs in content and leans back in her chair.

“Better?” Lexa asks, taking her plate to the sink. She just smiles wide and nods.

She watches as Lexa washes the dishes and cleans up around the kitchen. It’s calm and quiet, and all Clarke can do is marvel at how normal it feels. She pulls her knees up to her chest and leans back in her seat, tentatively letting herself think back to the night before.

It had been so easy, falling back into things with Lexa. It had been so easy to sit close to her, watch her green eyes and consider running her fingertips down her arm, through her hair, to kiss—

A bright red alarm blares in her head— _warning warning—_ and she tried to hide a shuddering breath behind her mug.

She leaves those thoughts behind a closed door. Definitely dangerous.

“Hey,” Lexa says over her shoulder, pulling Clarke out of her thoughts, “Merry Christmas.”

It catches her by surprise. She had totally forgotten.

“Shit, you're right. Merry Christmas.

Lexa laughs and shakes her head, looking back down into the sink. Clarke smiles and takes another sip of her coffee, doing her best to believe that the warmth inside is from her mug and not the girl in front of her. Then, something bright flashes in the corner of her eye.

The snow.

It pulls her to the window. She moves the curtains aside and is blown away by the sight.

A thick layer covers everything, vague outlines of snow only hinting at the landscape hidden underneath. She hasn't seen snow like this in ten years.  

It’s a soft, blinding kind of white and suddenly, Clarke wants nothing more than to go outside and run around in it.

“Do you want to go outside?” Lexa asks, reading her mind yet again.

“Yes. So very much yes.”

Lexa smiles and walks to the closet in the hallway, pulling out clothes in practiced order—parkas, gloves, hats, boots. Clarke looks at all the stuff, smiling small to herself.

It’s all her old gear she left behind in Arkadia. The jacket older than her whose warmth she never managed to find in another piece of clothing, the thick beanie that used to belong to her dad, and a pair of gloves that have a heart with an L drawn on one of the tags inside.

It blindsides her, but she pushes through and pulls it all on.

They cloud the clear sky with their breath as they walk outside, shoes crunching as the snow breaks underfoot with each step. It’s chilly, but not the kind of impossible cold like the day before. The weather has relaxed—has tired itself out after the monster of a storm and now rests easy, letting the two grown women enjoy the snow like they did when they were young.

Clarke had forgotten how quiet it gets here.

She closes her eyes, relishing how she can hear trees bristling in the slight breeze and feel it move through her hair. It’s like she and Lexa are the only ones on Earth.

“God,” Lexa says, “I haven't seen snow like this in years.”

“Me neither,” Clarke sighs, eyes still closed. She takes a breath deep enough for the cold air to reach her toes and opens her eyes to watch it swirl out of her.

There’s a rustling behind her and she turns to see Lexa taking off her parka. She folds it neatly—better than a human being should be able to fold a puffy jacket—and sets it down on the porch stairs.

“Aren’t you gonna be cold?,” Clarke asks.

Lexa just shakes her head and bends down to tie her shoelace with a smile.

“Nah, I'm already sweating.”

“Leave it to you to be hot even after a blizzard.”

Lexa stands upright again and winks at her.

“Thanks, Clarke.”

She wants to scoff and roll her eyes, but Lexa flashes her such a dazzling smile that it makes her _blush_. The sudden rush of warmth in her cheeks is so ridiculously embarrassing, but Lexa mistakes it for a chilled flush and comes to her, concerned.

“Are you cold?” she asks, unfurling the scarf from around her neck to wrap around Clarke’s, who is speechless and overwhelmed and actually _very_ warm on the contrary.

She just kind of grunts a thank you, turns on a heel, and starts speed-walking in the opposite direction.

“Hey! Where’re you going?” Lexa yells from behind. She hears her delayed steps crunch through the powder.

Later that night when considering _why_ she chose her next move, Clarke will be unable to form a coherent reason besides that she just panicked.

Clarke slaps together a snowball and throws it at Lexa.

Both of them are equally as stunned at the move. But Lexa—clever, understanding, wonderful Lexa—smiles wickedly and Clarke _knows_ she’s in for it.

This was something they had done very often, granted with the clock turned back ten years and a different kind of tension between them. One much more curious and pure than the uneasiness Clarke is trying to swallow.

But the unadulterated shriek that falls from her lips as Lexa chases her is nothing less than real and for a moment, Clarke lets herself forget everything else and just be someone who’s getting chased by a friend.

A friend.

//

“Surrender now or suffer the consequences.”

The voice rings through the yard, echoing in the silence of the stalemate they had reached twenty minutes ago. It makes Clarke peek over the edge of her _quite_ large fort and look at the even larger one about twenty yards away.

She can barely make out the top of Lexa’s head—brown hair slipping out of a braid from the exertion of a snowball fight that had grown into an all-out war.

It’s a game they had played often as kids—Clarke of the Skies versus Lexa of the Trees. Titles chosen with care from the color of their eyes and the jackets they had worn through most of their childhood.

“Yeah?” she answers, yelling right back. “You and what army?”

“You’re no match for the Commander’s forces, Clarke of the Skies. You started this war, but I will end it.”

She laughs, shaking her head. She forgot how deep Lexa gets into the game. Even after all their years of growing up, that never changed.

Lexa keeps shouting, taunting her and referring to herself as the Commander (Clarke had called her that _once_ when they were 12 and she never forgot it), so she decides to take advantage of the monologue.

With slow, quiet steps, she approaches the side of Lexa’s fort with an armful of snow ready to drop on her head. The gloating will be _delicious_ when she—

There's no one behind the fort.

 _“_ What the hell?” she says to herself.

Out of nowhere, she’s nailed by a boulder of snow to the back.

“Bullseye!” Lexa shouts from a couple steps behind her. Clarke turns, incredulous at the sneak attack to her sneak attack. She hadn't even _heard_ her.

“I win!” Lexa throws her hands up in the air in victory, smile wide and bright against her rosy cheeks.

“No way you won,” Clarke huffs.

“Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure the rules state that a clear shot to the opponent—”

“Nope. You missed,” she says, doing her best rendition of Octavia’s poker face. But god, it is so hard trying not to laugh at Lexa’s growing disbelief.

“You are blatantly lying and I don't know how to process this.”

Clarke takes the opportunity to toss a small bit of snow at Lexa’s chest. She grins wide.

“Now _that_ is a clear shot. I win!”

“What?! You—I—” Lexa looks like a kid again, at a loss for words and unable to take her teasing. “You're such a cheater!”

“That is a serious accusation, ma’am. I urge you to rethink your statement.” Clarke is biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling too much.

“Well I urge _you_ to run.”

Clarke shrieks and takes off with Lexa chasing her, snow flying as they race across the yard. They're laughing and screaming as Clarke tries her best to get away, but years of soccer and hockey for Lexa while Clarke preferred sitting somewhere indoors has one of them at a severe disadvantage.

Lexa catches up to her and in her surprise, Clarke stumbles and they topple over together into the snow.

Clarke opens her eyes to Lexa a breath away, so close that she can see the flecks of grey in the green of her pupils. It warms her from head to toe.

They lay there, wide-eyed and staring, their noses almost touching, her lips so close—

The deep rumble of a truck in the distance surprises them, breaking the tension like an icicle cut clean from its perch, melted by warmth and shattering on impact.

Lexa’s eyes search hers for a beat, maybe contemplating...something. But the moment has passed and with a sigh, she gets up off Clarke.

The cold is sudden and jarring without Lexa.

“We should head inside,” she says, brushing snow off herself and extending a hand to help Clarke up. She takes it gingerly, head still spinning.

They walk quietly back into the house, shutting the door with a click and pulling themselves out of their gear.

“Hot chocolate?” Lexa asks, shucking her boots off and tossing her hat on one of the hooks. She doesn't look Clarke in the eye and it's enough to pull at something inside her.

“Yeah, that'd be great.”

Lexa is almost relieved, escaping to the kitchen and giving them both a chance to gather themselves.

Clarke walks over to the fire, warming her hands and turning what just happened over in her head.

Almost kissing _twice_ in 12 hours? Clarke wants to hit herself. What the hell is she thinking?

All of it is too much at once. Lexa is everything she was before Clarke left and it's something she can't reconcile with the very fact that she left her. Guilt and confusion sit like bricks on her chest and suddenly, she can't breathe. Everything is so muddled and she can taste something like regret in the back of her throat, which lights a fuse in her out of nowhere.

She’s so _angry._

It breathes and bubbles like lava deep inside, reaching the tips of her fingers and the bottoms of her feet.

She doesn’t deserve this. _Clarke_ doesn’t deserve this bitter regret and confusion when all she did was chase a different dream somewhere far away. Yeah, that's all she did. She ran towards something else.

Lexa walks into the living room with two steaming mugs, one piled high with marshmallows like Clarke prefers.

That turns out to be the last straw.

“This isn't what I asked for,” she practically shouts. Lexa almost drops the cups in surprise, looks at her and frowns slightly.

“You said you wanted hot chocolate. I just added marshmallows because I know you like—”

“Exactly!” She exclaims, losing all sense of logic like a hat whipped away in the wind. “I didn't ask for this, this—trip to Christmas past where you know me inside out and do all this—”

“They're just marshmallows, Clarke.”

“It’s not just the marshmallows!” Her breaths come heavy as she tries not to come apart at the seams. “It’s _everything_ . It’s the guilt and this weight in my chest I've had since I walked back into this house. It’s you and this house and how it feels wrong to call it _my_ house. I didn’t ask for this. I don't want this!” She throws herself down on the couch, sitting with her head in her hands.

Lexa looks at her for a moment, completely calm, then puts the mugs down with a sigh.

“Okay, so we’re doing this.”

“Excuse me?”

“This conversation was coming. Alright, let’s hear it.” She flourishes a hand in front of her. “Counsel, your opening statement in the case of ‘Griffin vs. the life she left behind’.”

Clarke is almost speechless at the audacity of Lexa’s sarcasm and bitterness.

Key word, _almost_.

“Why is it such a bad thing that I left?” Clarke yells, her voice climbing and almost completely out of her control. She throws herself off of the couch and starts pacing. “Yeah, I had the guts to leave this town and do something else with my life unlike everyone here. I flew away from the nest, sue me!"

It's harsh and the breath of it burns her from the inside out.

“Wh—You seriously—Are we saying you were brave now?” Lexa shouts, her anger answering right back. “Is the argument now that you wanted to _spread your wings_ and _leave this town behind_ like some 90’s punk song?”

“Yes! No. I don’t _know_!”

“Then what?”

“It—It’s more than that.”

A pause.

“The way I remember it, you were running, Clarke. From your family, from your dad dying—“ she pauses, her chest heaving. “From me.”

Clarke looks up when Lexa’s voice cracks at the last word, but she’s already turned away towards the crackling fire.

“I thought it was—I thought I was doing the right thing. Moving on, moving forward.” Clarke couldn’t remember a time her tongue was heavier.

“You moved away. Everything happened so fast and then suddenly you made up your mind. You felt like you needed to leave, so I wasn’t about to stand in the way." Lexa's voice is laced with pain. Clarke can see the strain in her neck, at the way her shoulders curve forward slightly and she knows Lexa’s trying not to cry.

Seeing her like this—knowing without a doubt that Lexa still felt something—is both too much and not enough.

The words are out of her mouth before she can debate the merits of ripping open old scars.

“Why didn’t you fight for me?” Clarke whispers. “Why didn’t you want me to stay?”

The whole room condenses into the space between them. She sees Lexa flinch, so small and so sudden that she almost misses it. Her fingers itch to run a hand over Lexa's shoulder, to smooth away the tension and sadness that pulls at her.

 _No_. Stop this.

“I couldn’t—“ Lexa’s voice breaks and something inside Clarke breaks right alongside it. “I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to be the one holding you here when you wanted to go so desperately.”

“Lexa—“

“Don’t tell me I didn’t fight for you when I didn’t have a choice.” Another breath. “I loved you enough to let you go, Clarke. I knew I had to, but you lied.”

It hits her square in the chest, and all she can do is stand there. She realizes what that strange feeling was this whole time.

It was longing.

It was wanting to see Lexa for years and finally seeing her and knowing exactly what she had walk out on.

“You said you would come back and I believed you and you lied.

"I'm sorry."

All the anger and confusion shift instantly to remorse. To full-on, unbearable regret as she accepts the unrest in her hands as the desire to touch Lexa. Just once. _Just once._

"Don't apologize."

"But I—"

" _Don't_." The word is sharp.

“I left. And everything's different and it's my fault."

Lexa runs a hand across her face and over her forehead. With a sigh, she leans forward in her seat.

“Yeah Clarke, you left. And we had to deal with it. Get used to the empty space and fill it in best we can, because god knows you left a fucking hole in this place.” She stands abruptly and faces away from Clarke again. "I can’t do this. I need some air."

"Lex, wait. _Please._ "

She just leaves, grabbing her coat again from the back of a chair and opening the front door with a whoosh.

The slam echoes through the house, the wind whipping through Clarke's hair and the fire for a moment. She sinks down on the floor, leaning back against the couch with her head in her hands, wondering how and why she never realized she was still in love with the girl whose heart she broke.

//

The sound of tires crunching into the driveway shakes Clarke from her stupor. A car door opens and shuts, and she hears two voice rumble low on the other side of the front door.

Lexa has been out there for almost an hour, just quiet and alone on the porch swing. She speaks now to whoever is here.

Two raps on the door have her padding across the living room, opening the door to Raven who’s bundled up from head to toe and so unabashedly happy to see her.

“Clarke!”

And that’s enough to make her dissolve into tears.

“Oh god,” Raven says, rushing forward to hug her. “Babe no, don't cry.” She puts an arm around her and ushers them inside.

They go into her room, sitting on the messy covers from Clarke’s almost sleepless night.

“I’m sorry,” she says between hiccups. “I’m so sorry.”

It seems impossible to say more than just that, but Raven just rubs her back and holds her closer as if she knows exactly what Clarke wants to say.

“It truly sucked,” she whispers, “but it’s alright. It’s alright.” She repeats it over and over again, soft and sad as Clarke cries into her shoulder.

The time and distance she chose to keep from one of her best friends seems impossible in this moment. She feels something akin to grief for the years wasted away from everyone she loved, no, _loves._ She had caused so much sadness in her absence. Even Raven—strong, unshakeable, unbreakable Raven—lets a few tears fall into her hair.

Eventually, the sobs begin to slow and Clarke takes deep breaths to gather herself.

“What happened with Lexa?” The words are careful. Clarke sniffs, wiping tears with the inside of her sleeve.

“I knew it’d be hard to see her again. I knew it'd be hard to come back here, but—” she hiccups and closes her eyes, “Raven, I messed up. I made so many mistakes. I'm so sorry.”

Tears threaten to fall again, but Raven takes her by the shoulders and shakes her, eyes almost harsh if they weren't just as wet as her own.

“ _Enough_. No apologizing. In some fucked up way, we understand why you did it. Doesn't make it suck any less, but I get it. We all do.”

Clarke sniffs again, sedated by her hard tone. With a sigh, Raven visibly softens again.

“We have a while till everyone else gets here. Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

She closes her eyes for a beat—gathering herself and sparing one thought for the look in Lexa’s eyes before she stormed out—and tells Raven everything.

//

“Wow.”

“I know, Rae. It’s bad.”

“ _Wow_ ,” she repeats. “I don’t really know what else to say.”

Clarke falls back onto the bed with a thud, throwing an arm over her eyes. They had sat there, talking softly till long after the sun disappeared and her windows went dark.

“I had something wonderful and perfect, and I messed it up beyond repair.”

“But you came back. That’s gotta count for something.”

“You did hear everything I just told you, right? What I’ve done is not something you can just forgive.”

“I think that’s for Lexa to decide.” A pause. “When you _tell her how you feel_.”

“No chance.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Raven almost shouts. It makes Clarke spring up on the bed to shush her.

“I’m sorry, Clarke, but the only thing worse than you messing up with the love of your life five years ago is messing it up _again_.”

“What am I supposed to say? ‘I left but I still love you’? Would _you_ forgive that?”

“I would. I did.”

“Raven—”

They’re interrupted by a knock on the open door.

Standing there, looking greater than she could've ever imagined, is her mom.

“I think it’s her turn now for a reunion,” Raven says, getting off the bed. “I’m gonna go see when everyone’s getting here.” She rests a hand on Abby’s shoulder for a moment before stepping out.

“Hi, sweetie.”

Clarke almost tackles her, engulfing her in a hug.

They stay like that for a while, squeezing hard and warm and fitting like only a mom and her daughter can.

“I’m so sorry, mom.”

She’s sure she hears her mom sniffle into her shoulder, but she isn't sure her heart can take anymore so she rolls past it. Holds her a little tighter.

“Honey, I'm sure Raven told you to stop apologizing. Like I said before,” she pulls back to look at Clarke at arm’s length. Her eyes are watery as she places a hand on her daughter’s cheek. “the only thing that matters is that you came back.”

Clarke closes her eyes, knowing that it isn't enough and that it’d never be. Not when she’s leaving again.

She lets herself consider the option to stay a little longer for half a second before the image of Lexa’s sad and angry eyes overtakes it.

It’s too much. She can't.

“Yeah,” she says, quiet. “I came back.”

Her mom smiles, blinking back tears.

“C’mon, you must be starving. Let’s get you some food before bed. You’ve got a super early flight tomorrow.”

Clarke opens her mouth to say something, to apologize again maybe, but the words catch in her throat. Her mom looks at her for a moment and sighs in understanding.

“It’s okay, honey. I know. I know you have to go.”

Clarke looks down at her hands, ashamed but unable to deny it, and her mom’s head dips to catch her eye.

“It’ll be okay,” she says again.

Clarke can’t bring herself to agree.

//

There are friends, and there are family. There are people you've known for so long and know so deeply that just walking into a room is enough to share that what's needed is warm food and hugs and raucous laughter.

Raven, Octavia, Bellamy, Lincoln, Monty, Jasper, even Lexa. They fill the room to the brim with the kind of love that's only found in this house, in this town and it hurts and heals at the same time.

They chat and catch up, voices climbing over each other as they share stories new and old in trying to mold themselves back around the fact that Clarke is _back,_ is home again.

She listens and listens and listens, trying her best to make up for her absence by soaking in as much as she can. Bellamy had settled into his job as a history teacher at Arkadia High, had even abandoned his desire to become a professor because he loved the damn kids so much. Jasper had met the love of his life—Maya, who he talks about like she put the stars in the sky and makes his smile light up like nothing Clarke has seen before. Octavia and Lincoln were busy with the opening of their new gym, and still disgustingly, irrevocably in love.

And Lexa. God, Lexa. As the hours and minutes tick down to Clarke’s departure yet again, she watches her. She tries to tell herself that it's different this time—that she’d be back and it wouldn’t be a lie—but the dark circles under Lexa’s eyes and the slight tilt of a frown is enough to weigh heavy in her chest.

She watches, unable to look away knowing that she’s leaving again soon and won't see her for a while.

 _A while._ Who knows how long that will be.

“ _Clarke._ ”

“Hm?” she answers, pulled out of her reverie. Monty laughs and shakes his head.

“Kindly join us in the conversation and help me convince Jasper that a salsa band is a _terrible_ idea for his wedding reception.”

Clarke crinkles her nose at the idea and frowns at him. Monty laughs boisterously as everyone boos Jasper.

“Dude, hands down the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Bellamy says from the couch.

“Can you even salsa?” she asks, doubt laced with every syllable.

“No one in this room can salsa,” Octavia scoffs.

“Um, excuse the fuck outta you,” Raven retorts from the other side of the room. “I can salsa better than anyone, even with a cruddy leg.” She pats her brace for good measure.

“Guys, Maya wants it so it’s happening.” Jasper claps his hands against his thighs, as if to silence the conversation. “But if anyone knows where I can take salsa classes, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“I can teach you,” Raven says, finishing off her soda.

“Jasper, you don’t wanna learn anything from her.” Octavia’s tone is suddenly serious.

“Worst teacher ever. No patience and entirely too mean,” Bellamy adds.

“Agreed.”

“Yup.”

Raven looks around, incredulous at the unanimous opinion. She frowns pointedly at all of them and nabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl next to her.

“Fine, I hope you enjoy ruining Jasper’s wedding with your _terrible_ dancing.”

The room breaks down laughing again and Clarke wonders for a moment how she had survived this long without these people in her life, without this much love in a city a thousand miles away.

It seems impossible, but then she catches a glimpse of Lexa, sitting on the couch on the other side of the living room with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and she remembers.

That’s why.

//

She’s in the kitchen, making popcorn with Octavia when Lexa walks in with a stack of dirty plates and empty beer cans in hand.

Clarke shuts up immediately, letting Octavia’s voice fill the room and the conversation as she tries to summon the courage to say something to Lexa.

Lexa, on the other hand, does everything to avoid her eyes, to keep space between them and it aches through her.

When she pads back out into the living room, Octavia lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. That was icy.”

Clarke glares at her and she winces in apology.

“That bad?”

“Worse.” She sighs and sets the bowl down on the counter. “I really messed up, O.”

“Yeah, you did. Plus you’re leaving again in, like, seven hours. Speaking of which, I’ll be here at 5 AM to take you to the airport.” She pops some kernels into her mouth.

Clarke glares harder. Octavia just shrugs.

“It’s really terrible now, I get it. But what you need to do is make sure this isn’t the end. You have to go, yeah, but come back. Be brave and come back.”

Clarke sighs, sliding an arm over her shoulder and pulling her into her side for a small hug. The two lean into each other.

“Does it hurt more to think about him now that you’re here?” Octavia’s voice is soft, small.

The air in Clarke’s lungs freezes for a moment, but she breathes out slowly through her nose.

“I made peace with his death a long time ago. But I think it’ll always hurt a little without him. Especially here, especially now.”

Her best friend nods, thoughtful and sad.

“I miss him too. We all do.”

“I know.”

“We missed _you_.”

“I know.”

Lincoln’s voice calls for Octavia from the other room, and she leaves for him with a warm pat on Clarke’s arm.

She stands there for a while, back against the counter and arms folded on her chest.

There is bravery and there is giving into this fear of facing what she broke. Both felt like losing a war that she didn’t realize she was fighting.

So much time. So much lost time.

In that moment, Lexa walks back in with an empty bowl in her hands. She finally looks at Clarke and both are very aware they’re alone.

“We’re out of popcorn.”

“Yeah, uh, I made more,” Clarke says, gesturing at the bowl next to her.

“Oh, cool. Thanks.” Lexa walks over to take it and turns to leave again.

“Wait, can we talk?”

She stops in her tracks. There is a heavy beat of silence as Clarke watches her, teeth grit and hands almost shaking at this little bit of bravery she is attempting. Lexa’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, and her hair shifts as she looks down.

“Clarke—”

“I feel like I need to explain—”

“No. You don’t. And frankly, I don’t really want to hear it.”

“Lexa—”

“ _Please_. Let’s just have this pleasant night with everyone under the same roof. Then you leave tomorrow and everything will go back to the way you’re used to. I can’t do this anymore, Clarke. You’re leaving and I don’t want to break to pieces because of it.” Her voice threatens to shake, but Lexa holds steadfast. Their eyes lock and this shade of green is too tired, too worn. “Not again.”

It hits her like a slap. Maybe she meant it and maybe she didn’t, but either way, it sucks the fight, the desire to _try_ right out of Clarke.

The thought of it hurts too much.

She manages to smile through the rest of the night, talking and laughing with her friends and trying very hard not to think about just how much she had missed, had missed them. But her eyes always pull back to the small furrow in Lexa’s forehead, to the set of her shoulders, the curve of her lips. Long after she gave all her goodbye hugs and held back “till-next-time” tears, after she cried with her mom and watched the headlights leave the long driveway, long after Lexa whispers a quiet _good night_ and pads upstairs, Clarke hears the words echo through her.

 _Not again_.

She sleeps. She doesn’t dream.

//

Two honks from outside bring Clarke out of her room, clothes and feelings tucked into her small black suitcase and a jacket folded over her arm.

The house is quiet, save for the low crackle of the dying fire, as the night hadn’t turned to day yet. Clarke had booked the earliest flight out of Arkadia and she silently thanks her own foresight. She hadn’t anticipated wanting to make such a quick getaway but then again, there was a lot she didn’t anticipate.

She takes soft steps across the living room, pulling her boots on quietly while her head was a mess of conflicting thoughts, all shouting over one another in an attempt for reason.

_Am I running away again?_

_Is this the last time I get to be in this house?_

_Can Lexa and I ever be fixed?_

All these questions and the only thing Clarke is sure of is that leaving is not the answer.

And yet it’s all she can bring herself to do.

“Clarke.”

She looks up at the voice.

“Lexa, you’re up. You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Clarke can practically hear the underlying words.

_Because I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again._

It pangs through her and she grits her teeth against the pain.

Lexa shuffles forward and holds out a small, white box.

“This is for you. I was going to give it to you last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to.

“Lexa—”

“Do me a favor and open it when you get home. It’ll make more sense later.”

“I—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Her voice wavers. “ _Please_ don’t say anything.”

Clarke lets out a slow sigh. She reaches for the box and their fingers brush.

 _So close yet so far_ , a voice laments in the back of her mind.

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Clarke.”

//

Their doors slam shut and Octavia starts the car. The heater’s turned on full blast and they take a minute for it to warm up as their breaths cloud and fog in the car.

Clarke looks out the window at her home, at the soft glow of light through the curtains, the porch swing, the curling column of smoke from the chimney.

She is leaving it for the last time and the pain of it burns straight through her.

Octavia puts the car in drive and pulls out of the driveway. The tires crackle with the press of snow underneath and all Clarke can do is watch her home get smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.

They're quiet all the way to the airport, neither knowing what to say that would lessen the sadness that sits in the car like a third passenger.

Octavia pulls up to the drop-off curb slowly and parks with a sigh. She turns to Clarke and leans back on the headrest.

“Sucks to watch you go again.”

She feels a wave of guilt in her stomach at the look in Octavia’s face. It’s something too close to disappointment for her to take.

Clarke places her hand over Octavia's and squeezes once.

“I’ll be back. I promise.”

Her best friend’s answering smile doesn't quite reach her eyes and it breaks off another piece of her heart. She doesn’t believe Clarke. And Clarke can’t fault her for it. She was leaving again, wasn’t she?

Before she can lose anymore of herself, Clarke opens her door and gets out, bag in hand.

Octavia waves and waits to watch her walk in through the doors.

She methodically makes her way through the process of leaving—the lady at ticketing and the security officials try not to notice her almost robotic movements—and when she makes it to her gate, she sits, back straight and knees together, in wait for her escape route.

She’s running away again and she knows it.

But what is she supposed to do? Just accept that she ruined things with Lexa and that it hurt to leave more this time around? Be totally okay with the fact that her mom is selling their home away?

Her home. All her memories of her dad and her childhood and every good thing she’s treasured since then.

A dark wave of helplessness bubbles up inside her, turning into sadness, fear, and then, like an inferno—

Anger.

So much _anger_ at how much things had spun out of her control after she left.

Before she knows it, her phone is at her ear, dialed for her mom.

“ _Clarke?”_

Her voice is low and simmering when she finally manages to say something.

“I can't believe you're doing this.”

“ _Darling, what's wrong?”_

“The house. You're _selling_ the house.”

A sigh warbles through the phone.

“ _I thought you said you didn't want to talk about it. That it didn't matter._ ”

“You—I— _Of course_ it matters. I’m leaving again and when I come back, it won't be to our house.”

All the feelings she had tried her best to muffle now threaten to spill over.

“ _I know you're upset I'm selling it, but there's truly no reason to be, Clarke._ ”

“ _How_ can you say that, mom?” She feels her voice climbing beyond control. “You're selling our home! My childhood home that dad built with his bare hands!”

She can't believe her mom is being so nonchalant about it all and it's just icing on the cake of this trip straight out of her nightmares.

Time alone with Lexa. Realizing much she had _truly_ fucked up five years ago. Missing her dad more than anything and knowing she hurt everyone she loves by staying away. Her mom, her friends, _Lexa._

Her words shake in her throat.

“I'm losing this too and you don't seem to care.”

“ _Honey, of course I care_ .” Abby says. “ _This wasn't an easy decision for me, but it just made sense with you gone and your dad…_ ” She pauses. Another sigh.

“ _Clarke, this isn't the end_ —”

“It sure as hell feels like it.”

Her mom lets out an exasperated sound.

“ _I’ll try to understand the dramatics, but I’m sure Lexa won't tear the whole place down and build a multiplex or something. It’ll be here for you to visit_.”

Wh—

Did she hear that correctly?

“What?”

“ _Clarke_ —”

“Lexa’s buying the house? Our house?”

There’s a pause.

“ _You didn't know?”_

Clarke leans back in her seat, back thudding against the hard plastic.

“ _She couldn’t bear to let me sell it to someone else and I couldn’t bear to make her pay for it. It took weeks of negotiating, but we finally agreed to something. It'll be hers once we sign the contract tomorrow_.”

Clarke could swear that she flatlines for a moment as she processes the words.

Her mother sold the house. She sold it to Lexa, who didn't tell Clarke and she’s sure she knows why deep down.

Suddenly, she remembers the small box in her coat pocket. Thinks of Lexa’s words.

_Do me a favor and open it when you get home. It’ll make more sense later._

Ignoring the request completely, she rips the wrapping off, letting it flutter down to the floor.

“ _Clarke?”_

She remembers the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, and takes it back into her hand.

“Mom, I’ll call you back.”

“ _I_ — _”_

“I promise, I just have to do something.”

She hangs up with a click and tosses it down next to her. Looks down at the small white box again.

She lifts the top off carefully, heart thudding in chest.

It’s a key. A small, old one that she recognizes immediately.

Lexa had given Clarke her father’s old key to the house.

A breath shudders through her. She takes it out of the box and rubs her thumb across the worn metal.

There’s a note underneath.

**_Clarke,_ **

**_I'm sure you recognize this. I don't know what to say about the house because I don't know why I did it either. Just know that this is yours & it always will be._ **

**_Merry Christmas._ **

**_Lexa_ **

Clarke eyes the gentle slant of the words, the hard press of the ink on _always_ as if Lexa had struggled to write it.

The storm that had swirled inside Clarke since the moment she stepped off the plane three days ago stops on a dime.

The key sits in her palm, small and unassuming.

_Just know that this is yours and it always will be._

Clarke wonders if she’s talking about the key to the house or something much more.

She closes her fist around it, breathing once and closing her eyes.

The tiny weight of it in her hand is enough. It’s enough to silence every complicated question and dilemma that had plagued Clarke for years.

Whether she had made a mistake leaving home, if she was meant to be in Arkadia, if Lexa was the one that got away.

The answer to it all is a resounding yes.

Now all Clarke had to do was go tell her.

Everything blurs past her as she sprints through the terminals, back through security and out the doors, only stopping to catch her breath when she makes it to the taxi stop.

She practically shouts the address— _and step on it_ —and the driver doesn't hesitate, speeding out of the airport and towards town.

Clarke can't seem to think straight as she just watches the white scenery outside her window zooms past. She has no idea what she’s doing, but she knows it's right.

What would she say? How would she explain herself? What could possibly fix everything she’d wrecked in her wake? Fix everything she’d done to _them_?

_I love you. I never stopped._

That’s a good start.

As the car pulls into her street, Clarke feels her heartbeat thud in her ears, getting faster and harder the closer they got to the house.

She’s out of the taxi before it even stops and runs straight in. The door opens with a slam to the shock of all her friends who are still lounging around the living room, and without sparing them a glance, she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Lexa is just sitting at the table, nursing a steaming mug and reading a newspaper. She looks so peaceful that it slows her down for just a moment.

She hears her come in and looks up, visibly confused. But Clarke is just standing there, almost unable to think knowing what she knew and with the small weight sitting in her back pocket.

Lexa’s eyes search her’s. She must find an answer because she just sighs, leaning back in her chair. Clarke breaks the silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

She doesn't answer. Only looks down and away.

“Lexa, why didn't you tell me?” Her voice shakes as it climbs. “Why wait to let me find out with this note and this _key_ that you know means way more than three sentences and a small box?”

Lexa bursts.

“Because I _didn’t know_ _how to tell you._ I didn't know how to say that I couldn't let this place go.” She drops the paper and stands. “That this house is just as much my home as it is yours and even though you left, it stayed that way. It’s my childhood and every good memory I have and I didn't want you to think it was for you, or because of you.”

Clarke can't do anything but stare at her. Breathe slowly because she feels like she’s about to break.

“I couldn’t let your mom sell this place because this place _is_ you, Clarke. This house is everything to me and losing it meant losing you forever.”

Her chest is heaving from her words and there are tears in her eyes that rival Clarke’s. It’s everything and _god,_ it’s enough and in this moment that she didn’t realize she’d been waiting for for years, Clarke can’t help but smile.

“So, what you’re saying is that you still like me.”

Lexa pauses, eyebrows furrowed. A laugh sputters out of her and Clarke grins wider.

“You are unbelievable. I spill my soul like that and that’s what you get from it?”

“It _is_ all because of me and for me.” She presses on, taking slow steps towards Lexa.

“I don't—”

She stops in front of her.

“Tell me you don't still have feelings for me.”

“Clarke.”

“Say you—”

“I can't do that.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence between them.

“I can't do that because I love you. I never stopped.”

The words steal the air out of Clarke’s lungs. It pangs in her heart, but she knows that they alone are enough to fix what had been broken for five years.

She smiles.

“Well the thing is,” she says, taking another step closer and putting a hand on Lexa’s chest, whose hands instinctively go to her hips, “I'm still in love with you too, so I think that this might work out.”

Lexa looks at her for a moment, and laughs high and loud.

“God, Clarke. I should sue for emotional damages.”

“What?” Clarke says, smiling through the tears.

“You heard me. I’ll see you in court.”

Clarke lifts an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Two counts of heartbreak.”

“Well, both have now been mended and put back together, so I don't think we have to take this all the way to court.”

“I object.”

“Hmm,” she hums, eyes straying to Lexa’s lips. “Overruled.”

And finally, finally, they kiss.

//

_“I told you I could make it happen in three days.”_

_“Oh shut up, Raven, this took six people brainstorming for months and a goddamn miracle of a snowstorm. Not to mention Abby being on board.”_

_“I just can't believe we managed to keep this from Lexa.”_

_“Linc, she’s been brooding for years. Doesn't notice anyone or anything without blonde hair_ — _ow!”_

_“Be nice, glass bones and paper skin. Or I’ll tell her you said that.”_

_“You're supposed to be my little sister. You can't hit me.”_

_“Just did.”_

_“Everyone shut up! They're coming and they look happy. We can't ruin everything now.”_

_“Oh c'mon, Monty, one snarky comment.”_

_“Jasper, I will kill you dead if you so much as open_ — _”_

_“Hey guys!”_

//

It turns out that Arkadia was in dire need of local legal counsel. _Griffin Legal Services_ opens a couple months after a resignation letter is dropped off at a small law office in Washington DC. Clarke moves back into the house that her father built and has dinner every Sunday with her mom. She volunteers at the hospital every other week, sees her friends almost every day, falls back into the steady rhythm and warm arms of her town. She wears no jewelry but a necklace with a small key on it, until one snowy December night, when she also starts wearing a ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone's 20gayteen is coming along splendidly

**Author's Note:**

> so this was gonna be a one-shot but it crossed the 10k mark & even I couldn't do that to you guys. i'll post the second half in a few days!
> 
> i'm on the twittah @ei8htballer. come yell.


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